Page 49 of For You, Sir

Fear clenched my chest. I’d been so worried about myself, I never considered Jun might get dragged into my washed-up celebrity bullshit. Did the photo make us look like a couple? I was openly queer, and he could be presumed guilty by association. What if his butler agency saw? Would they firehim for dating a client?

Jun’s tone was level and firm. “I’m his chauffeur.” He tried to step past the photographer, but the asshole got in his way.

“Really?” The paparazzo addressed me now. “Because he looks like that P.A. you were fucking.”

Who?

Oh, yeah.

Bao was my production assistant a couple of years ago—a bright-eyed film student from Hong Kong. We dated for a while, but he was closeted to his family, so we kept things on the downlow.

Then a photo came out in a tabloid where I had an arm around Bao, and he ghosted me the same day. Getting dumped without a word hurt like hell, all the more because I knew I was to blame. Bao was an innocent bystander, entangled in the chains of my celebrity. That tabloid photo might have thrown his whole life off-kilter, for all I knew.

That was over a year ago, and the comparison to Jun was frankly insulting. Besides both being Asian, they were nothing alike—Bao was a Chinese extrovert who enjoyed retro slasher movies and celebrity gossip.

But with one shutter click of the paparazzo’s camera, a dreadful certainty fell over me: It was all going to happen again. This photo would ruin us. Jun’s agency would fire him. He would be outed. Maybe ostracized by his family.

And he wouldhateme for it.

My vision grayed, and I swayed, suddenly lightheaded. The side of my foot caught the box I’d dropped, making the broken pieces tinkle against each other.

A vast chasm opened beneath my feet, and I braced myself for the fall. I would pitch forward into darkness like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. At the bottom, an endless warren of my regrets and mistakes from which I would never emerge. Dizzy, I clutched the sleeve of Jun’s suit coat.

“Come along, Sir,” Jun said briskly. “You mustn’t be late for your next appointment.” He pressed a hand against my back and I unfroze at his touch. His arm slid around my waist as he ushered me to the car, but the paparazzo stepped in our way, and tried asking another question.

“Excuse me, please.” Jun’s tone was immaculately courteous, but he shoved the photographer back with an open palm, so forcefully it sent him staggering.

Jun whisked me into the passenger seat and I clutched a fist over my chest, trying to hold it together, while Jun got in on the driver’s side.

Don’t go, Jun. Please. I’m sorry I fucked things up for you. Don’t leave without saying anything.

Anxiety swelled inside my chest until my eyes overflowed. I slid my sunglasses back on and clenched my teeth to hold back a sob.

Pathetic.

Jun pulled away from the curb, and I took one last glance at the toppled bag on the sidewalk—a treasure for Jun, now just a bunch of shattered pieces. Like me, beyond hope of repair.

“Hey.” Jun reached over, found my hand, and squeezed it. “You’re okay.”

I burned with shame that he needed to console me like a child. A classy guy like Jun could do way better than me, anyway. He was so damn capable, whereas I… broke things. I made messes; he cleaned them up. Anyone would get tired of that.

“Want to try this new tea when we get home?” he asked.

My voice came out hoarse and strained. “I dropped your teapot…”

“We don’t need one,” Jun said. “We can make it with a strainer.”

Sweet Jun, always practical.

“I think you’ll like it,” he said, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb.

“Yeah,” I said. “I bet I will.”I want to try all the things you like. See the world through your lens. I want you to stay.

I closed my eyes to block out the blur of dingy strip malls whizzing past the window. I tipped my head back on the headrest, savoring Jun’s touch and presence beside me.

“You’re not my chauffeur,” I said after a long silence.

“I know,” Jun said. “Just a white lie to get him off our backs.”

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